


sea of sand

by DrownSoda (orphan_account)



Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Character Study, Gen, but only Piggy actually features, the others are mentioned and heard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 13:06:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11208663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DrownSoda
Summary: Piggy sits and wonders about himself, his old life, and the other boys. Set before his death





	sea of sand

The only true moments of peace Piggy could get were ones like this. His hands sunk into the soft, golden sand leading into the vast ocean ahead, the ocean that carried him here and, he hoped, would carry him back. Small jagged rocks - well, rather stones - piled up at his side, and with an absent mind he grabbed one, throwing it into the water half-heartedly and watching it cause a tiny, almost non-existent splash in that great blue abyss.

"Good, one, fatty." He jerked to the side, startled by the sudden appearance of Jack’s voice, only to realise it was just a trick of his mind. "You’re so useless." He’d heard these words so many times that he could hear the intonation perfectly, the rise and fall of Jack’s clipped, affected speech echoing in his head. He’d heard these words so many times he found it hard not to believe them. In his mind, brain, whatever - he knew that he was intelligent, and kind, and that his auntie loved him very much. But here he was, stuck in a place where intelligence didn’t seem to merit credit, and kindness didn’t warrant kindness in return, and his auntie and love seemed to be more than just an ocean away.

Midday was nearing, and the inevitable scorching heat and sun started to weigh down on Piggy, sweat rolling down his pink face. He still hadn’t become fully accustomed to the sun - he was able to tan, the skin on his body turning darker as the days went by, but the tender skin of his face still burned and peeled, only giving the other boys more ammunition for their jeering. Not that they needed any. Slowly, he lay back until he was flat, eyes veering from the blue ocean to the even bluer sky above. He wondered what it would be like to be Ralph. He didn’t know much about Ralph’s life at school but he could fill in the blanks (he’d always been good at that, knowing people): traditional fair good looks, undoubted athleticism, natural leadership skills and a somewhat amiable personality all seemed to equal “popular, well-liked” in his mind. On the island, though, he and Ralph were veritable pariahs, and he supposed it must be worse for Ralph. After all, Ralph must be used to being loved by many, whereas Piggy is suffering the same, just with different scenery.

Jack’s attempts at tribal war screams echoed through the island so strongly even he could hear them, the shrill ululating and childish screeching of the other hunters grating on him. _It’s like they’ve read an awful shocking book about the savages of the rainforest and have decided to imitate ‘em_ , he thought. Jack was another person who caught his interest; he couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to be _Jack_. Part of him yearned for at least a modicum of the respect charismatic, cruel boys like Jack drew to themselves, although it made him ashamed to admit it. When Jack taunted him, his words had a special element to them that the other boys lacked, that complete and utter dismissal and contempt for everything he was. He hated it when Ralph called him Piggy; he still, despite himself, wished Ralph would be a little kinder, a little softer, a little friendlier. But Ralph was an irritant more than anything. He couldn’t inspire the kind of insecurity and self-hatred that Jack could with one look, stripping him of all his dignity for reasons he couldn’t even begin to understand. Sometimes when he looked at the glinting dark eyes of the boy, he isn’t even sure that Jack sees another person when he looks at him. _Maybe he just sees a great, hulking animal._

As time wore on, the heat became a sticky, cloying cocoon surrounding him. _I don’t want to be like Jack_ , he thought, _except maybe I’d like to be as tall as he is. Or as athletic. No one would mess with me then, would they?_ And it was true that he envied the other boys’ slimness, although Jack was more outright bony, ribs and elbows and ankle bones worryingly pronounced and sharp as his tongue. If only he could lose all of this mass, this great, gross fat. His auntie always told him he was a growing boy, and that she was glad he was full, healthy and rosy unlike “these other lads, who just look downright sickly!”. Piggy could see her now, as he closed his eyes and ran his fingers through the sand again. He remembered a holiday they’d had a year prior, where she took him to the seaside and let him pick shells. She was chubby, like him, and no one seemed to tease her for it, her plump legs poking out from beneath her bright yellow and green floral dress, layers of petticoat making her skirt stick as stiffly as her curled, pinned hair. He remembered how proud she was when he was able to find a conch among the pebbles, and how she’d fuss when he wanted to venture into the water (“But Peter, your asthma!”). It had seemed so awfully hot then, when in reality it was temperate with a slight breeze - it hadn’t stopped them from getting ice-cream though, the sweet, sugary coldness covering his face, which made his auntie tut and brandish her wet wipe. He longed for his auntie, her stern-but-kind voice and even her seemingly endless anxiety would be a saving grace here, now, on this burning mistake of an island, where nobody cared and no one seemed to realise just how _disconnected_ they’d became.

He wondered if Jack thought of his folks back home. Even when they’d first arrived, he’d been so flippant and confident, as though it was his intended destination, his plan to lead all along. Surely he had a mother back home, worried sick, blissfully unaware of her darling boy’s actions. Piggy tried to imagine what she would look like - he pictured wild red hair, sharp cheekbones. Ralph had often spoke of his Daddy, in his naivety, when he’d first arrived here. Piggy saw Ralph’s father, too - he saw a tall man, golden-haired and like a Hollywood star, strong due to his career. He knew the older lads must have missed their family just as much as the littluns, just with enough self control to avoid crying for them. Even fairly recently, he heard Ralph mumbling to himself about what he was going to do when he got home, how his Daddy was going to teach him to fish. All that talk seemed pointless now.

“Today I’ll do it,” he muttered to himself, “today I’ll try.” He couldn’t go on like this, like a coward, never getting to tell Jack what he thought of him, forcing him to notice. Tension was building throughout the island and he could feel it, he could sense an explosion coming on, maybe even more than Ralph could. And he was sure he had Ralph to back him up, if that counted for anything. Today, or tomorrow, or whenever he got the chance, he was going to stand up to Jack Merridew. Demand respect. He’d found the conch, after all. It would be the scariest thing he’d ever done, but what else could he do? He rose from the sands slowly, breathing heavy as he pulled himself up. Ralph would be back soon, and he was ready to tell him his plans. Ralph would listen to him, sometimes.

Maybe the biggest mistake Piggy ever made was to keep on hoping someone would listen.


End file.
